The Talk
by AlkalineTeegan
Summary: There are all kinds of communication...


Gibbs had been sanding for quite a while.

He had been ignoring the presence in his kitchen for only about ten minutes.

That the presence stubbornly refused to move, having been spooked by a creak in the floorboards, pretty much told Gibbs its identity. But Gibbs didn't call out—either in question or friendly invitation.

Nor did he bark out an order for DiNozzo to get his ass down here.

He simply sanded.

And Tony finally obeyed the unspoken order, padding down the stairs in silence since he had traded his Italian leather boots and suit for sneakers and jeans.

Gibbs took in the attire from the corner of his eye and nodded to himself. _So it's going to be a long night. _He glanced at the nearly full bottle on the worktable and back to the unfinished boat. _No problem. _

Gibbs' eyes remained on the silky smooth wooden rib he was almost satisfied with, but his attention was on Tony as the agent sank onto the step with a weariness no man his age should have to know. Gibbs didn't have to ask a soft "You okay?" to know that he wasn't.

Tony wore his pain like a badly tailored suit—all rough edges and strained stitching in place of his usually sleek, seamless armor.

They both knew the silence was abnormal, but Gibbs made no comment, no demands for a reason for Tony's anguished presence. He gave his agent a quick nod of understanding before turning back to the boat. _It's okay, Tony. Take your time. _

Gibbs flicked another surreptitious glance toward the stairs and realized he didn't need to bother with the furtiveness. Tony was staring down at his knees, his arms banded tightly around his body. Gibbs took in that, along with the hunched-over posture, and frowned tightly. But still he did not comment because he had seen Tony in enough kinds of pain to know that he wasn't dealing with a busted rib or a dislocated shoulder.

He knew that even before Tony looked up and Gibbs noticed his friend's red-rimmed eyes.

Gibbs gave himself a mental headslap for letting himself get caught as Tony's eyes fell back down to his lap, shamed. Tony had never cried in front of him, and Gibbs knew it likely would never happen. Even this evidence of recent tears had Tony eyeing the staircase, and Gibbs saw it and moved to the tabletop, gesturing his offer with the bottle. _I can make it a double—looks like you could use it. _

Tony gave a negative shake of his head. Gibbs looked down at the glass and then back up at Tony. He knew his agent had been the child of two raging alcoholics and there were times when the simple scent of Gibbs' bourbon made Tony uneasy.

And he respected that.

There was no way in hell Gibbs would make his friend suffer just so he could sip his favorite spirit to drown away the sorrows of the day.

But Tony just gave another soft shake at Gibbs' questioning look.

So he poured himself a stiff one and went back to his boat with a soft smile. _Thanks, Tony. _The bottle was left on the table, ready to be either poured or put away. _Just in case you change your mind. _

Gibbs determined that the rib was finished and attacked the next one with a vigor that had a rivulet of sweat soon slipping down from his silver temple. He never made any attempts to heat the basement, finding warmth in both the physical exertion and his bourbon, but it did not escape his attention that Tony had neither luxury and was shivering lightly in the chilly subterrain. Gibbs grabbed a sweatshirt he kept handy for the nights when he came down here to do more thinking than sanding or drinking, and he dropped it onto Tony's lap with a half-power glare. _Put it on, Tony. You're shaking. _

With a nod of thanks, Tony slipped the warm NIS sweatshirt on while Gibbs pretended not to notice that he turned his face into the hood and breathed deeply, a few of the shadows lifting from troubled green eyes. Gibbs had no idea what had put those shadows there, what had silenced his normally ebullient agent—what was hurting his friend—but he didn't ask. He knew from experience that Tony would speak when he was ready.

Or he wouldn't. But Gibbs would gladly suffer his own curiosity if his undemanding company eased even the slightest of Tony's suffering.

One worn-out piece of sandpaper was traded for another, and still Tony did not speak. Gibbs was fairly certain he hadn't moved, either, except to curl tighter into himself as the wind picked up outside to a near-howl. A small, loose branch skritched across a pane of glass, and Tony jumped, making Gibbs wonder how far the agent had been burrowing into his own head—and what horrors, sadness or pain lived there in those deep, dark recesses.

But Gibbs just went to the window and locked it, having to use some elbow grease to force the lock into an unfamiliar position. On his way back to the boat, he gave his visitor a reassuring little nod. _Easy, Tony. You're safe here. _

When Gibbs went to refill his glass about a half-hour later, he caught Tony's eyes and saw the reluctant request in them, and so he poured another glass with a light hand. He paused, giving Tony a chance to come retrieve the drink himself, but Gibbs soon saw that he seemed far too weighed down by his heavy thoughts to rise from the safety of the step. So Gibbs crossed the floor slowly and placed the glass in Tony's hand, making sure his fingers brushed the chilled ones that reached out to accept it. He let the contact linger and almost flinched at the open gratitude in the sad eyes watching him so carefully.

Gibbs wished he could just put his arms around his friend and hug him, get his stubborn mouth to speak words of comfort that would chase away the pain.

But Gibbs was not that kind of person.

And he suspected such a sudden about-face would only serve to disconcert Tony more—or make him run screaming for the door.

So he simply released the glass and shot a look at the bottle. _Help yourself if you want more. There's plenty and the couch is always yours if you need it. _

Gibbs ignored the abrasions on Tony's knuckles. First, there was little swelling, no bleeding and probably no serious damage; and second, he knew the target of Tony's assault was most likely not human. This he inferred from the changed clothing, slightly damp hair and having seen Tony's car in the garage despite his agent's claim of leaving an hour earlier.

The judgment was also based on one very drunken—and therefore very honest—admission of Tony's that Gibbs almost wished he could forget. It had been about a year ago, and Tony had been nursing both a hand broken on a brick wall and the last of several stiff drinks. He had looked up at Gibbs from the exact spot he occupied now and attempted to answer his boss's question on why he had punched that wall hard enough to break multiple bones.

"_I just wanted the outside to match the inside for once." _

Gibbs didn't know whether Tony had been talking about outer and inner pain or was admitting to feeling broken inside, but it wasn't a question he spent much time thinking about—because it made him want to punch things, too. Gibbs was glad tonight that Tony had attacked only a punching bag instead of unforgiving brick. He would have preferred that his agent used gloves—or even tape—to protect what Gibbs knew were extremely skilled musician's hands, but at least he didn't have to worry about trips to Ducky or the ER on this chilly night, so he didn't mention it. _It would be so much easier if you would just tell me when you're hurt. Well, easier on _me _anyway… _

Paper rasped on wood long enough for Tony to finish his drink and work up the courage, desire and/or energy to get up and refill the glass. He raised an eyebrow at Gibbs' empty glass, but the silver head shook in the negative. If someone had to carry a drunken body up the stairs later, Gibbs figured it was only fair that he should do the heavy lifting tonight. _But go easy on the bottle, Tony. We don't need to add a raging hangover to your list of pain. _

Tony settled back onto the step with his drink, but Gibbs noticed that the movement seemed to have reawakened him from his earlier stock-still lethargy. Bourbon sloshed gently on a bouncing knee for several minutes while Gibbs waited for the spell to run its course and kick Tony back into his melancholy motionlessness.

But it didn't.

So Gibbs caught his friend's eye and tossed a hand sander at him, the scraped fingers plucking it from midair with such ease that Gibbs mentally confirmed his earlier diagnosis. It oddly made Gibbs want to haul Tony upstairs and seat him at Kelly's piano, a form of amateur therapy he had not yet tried—and wasn't about to tonight considering his lack of intel on the origin this current heartache. _I might not be able to help you, but I'm not about to hurt you, either. _

Tony placed the sander against the wood, his body poised to heed Gibbs' previous "With the grain" instructions, but still he did not move.

So Gibbs placed his calloused hand gently over Tony's scraped one and set the sander in motion. Again he let the contact linger—not because Tony needed the guidance but because he sensed Tony simply needed to be touched. _Don't worry. I won't let you screw up—not that you would anyway. _

That feeling, coupled with the relaxing of Tony's shoulders at the touch, had Gibbs growing more concerned for his agent, obviously still aching at some deep, unseen wound. Gibbs sanded, too, but he watched Tony carefully under the pretense of supervising his work on the boat.

Neither bought the ruse, but no words were spoken about it, either.

No words were spoken at all until much later, long after Tony had retreated slowly to his stair, his step slowed with both exhaustion and whatever pains still plagued his tired soul. Gibbs watched him lean his head against the rail, watched him try to blink himself into wakefulness again, but Gibbs gave him a soft glare. _Sleep, Tony. Or don't. Just rest, okay? Either you or we will get to work on whatever this is in the morning. You don't have to face it alone, but I will never force you to talk to me. _

Tony blinked sleepily and stood, finally ready to put an end to a long, emotionally exhausting day. He looked at Gibbs and opened his mouth to speak.

But Gibbs just shook his head. "You don't need to say it," he said, warding off the gratitude that was obvious in his agent's tired eyes. Again, he wanted to be able to show his support with a hug and a promise that everything would be all right, but Gibbs settled for a quick tap of two fingers under Tony's chin. And there was something that he did need to say.

"You're always welcome here, Tony."


End file.
